“Right-o! You get me! You’ve got more room up and down than you have across. Learn to put them just about where you want to from knee to shoulder. That worries a batter more than having ’em come to him near or wide. But you’ve got to study your man, son. It always seemed to me that the best of the pitchers in my time were sort of mind readers. Some of ’em just seemed to know what the batter was thinking and what he was looking for. Yes, sir, there’s a lot more to it than just pitching the ball!” Frequently, Tom went down to Mr. George’s room on the second floor and listened breathlessly while the former minor leaguer told of exciting battles on the diamond or of queer experiences he had met with. There was always much practical advice mixed up with the stories, and this Tom imbibed thirstily. How or when his pitching ability was to prove of use to him he did not know, for there was certainly no present prospect; but his enthusiasm never waned. Day after day, save such times as the detective was away or Tom was detained late at the store, the two spent the half-hour before dinner in the side-yard. There, masked and mitted, Mr. George stood behind the plate--a slab of wood of the correct dimensions had long ago taken the place of the barrel lid--and caught the balls that Tom hurled to him. Sometimes, and this was when Sidney had gone to some party or entertainment to which all his persuasion failed to entice Tom along, there was an extra session after dinner. On such occasions there was invariably an interested audience of at least one, the one being Mr. Tully. Mr. George was drilling Tom in control now and it was a good deal like hard work. They had made up a set of signals and Tom, ball in hand, would watch Mr. George’s fingers laid across the back of his big mitten and then do his best to put the ball over where it was wanted. High balls that cut the inner corner of the plate, high balls that passed over the middle of it, high balls that cut the outer corner, followed each other. Sometimes they were slow and sometimes fast. Mr. George was always calling for a change of pace. After the high balls came “waisters” and then low ones, and finally, as Tom’s control progressed, Mr. George would “mix them up.” “Here’s a ‘chopper,’” he would announce, referring to the mythical batsman. “What you going to give him, Tom?” And Tom, winding up, would put the ball over the plate knee-high. “That’s the ticket! Now here’s a ‘swinger,’ Tom.” Whereupon Tom would serve a waist ball that passed across the inside of the plate. “Strike! Sneak one over on him now.” A fast ball, between shoulder and waist, would follow and Mr. George would triumphantly announce another strike. “And now let’s get rid of him, Tom!” And Tom, his imagination almost visualising the non-existent ‘swinger,’ would, with a sudden change of pace, pitch a slow one straight over the centre of the plate, and: “Striker’s out!” Mr. George would declare.